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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28178907">Accidents</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_ag/pseuds/Random_ag'>Random_ag</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Bendy and the Ink Machine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blood, Character Death, Death, Decapitation, Failed Decapitation, Gift Fic, Murder, Sad Ending, Secret Satan, but yeah, its called being a fucking genius, why? bc i have a diseas that makes me love middle aged men in lov, you cannot tell and i will not add the relationship tag but Norm n Grant r in lov</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 00:41:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,743</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28178907</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_ag/pseuds/Random_ag</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It was not supposed to go this way.</p><p>(my secret satan for almwud on tumblr)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Accidents</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It.</p><p> </p><p>Was not.</p><p> </p><p>Supposed.</p><p> </p><p>To go.</p><p> </p><p>This way.</p><p> </p><p>Sammy huffed and panted, cursing his short breath as he gave one last yank across the floor before having to stop, mouth agape. His shaking hands struggled to keep their grip around the skin, sweat coating them as well as his forehead in large trembling beads; his back was arched painfully from the weight he was forced to carry, and his legs were screaming in pain, threatening to buckle beneath him.</p><p> </p><p>It was not.</p><p> </p><p>Supposed.</p><p> </p><p>To go this way.</p><p> </p><p>He looked down.</p><p>Grant stared at him blankly.</p><p>Sammy squeezed his eyes shut to fight back the nausea and inhaled through his teeth, air hissing between them.</p><p>A hand clasped painfully around his shoulder, making him see stars; he let out a pained groan, one of the accountant’s arm slipping off of his grip.</p><p> </p><p>“Seems mighty heavy for a single man.” a voice hissed in his ear; before he could react a fist landed squarely in his face and sent him crashing to the ground. Something thick and barely liquid began trickling down his broken nose.</p><p> </p><p>He laid there on the pavement completely stunned for a minute or two. Hazily he felt the body being dragged away from him, and a voice muffled by the deafenig ringing howling in his ear called for Grant Cohen to no avail, shaking the lifeless accountant. He blinked quickly, several times, to regain control of himself; his head was raised too fast, making the room spin wildly around him as a pulsing pain drilled holes into his temples. Finally, he managed to focus on a known face cradling the bloodied corpse in its arms.</p><p>Sammy coughed as a sour taste coated the back of his throat: “Norman,” he croaked as he kicked to get back up while the older man rose to his feet, thinly veiled fury crackling in his eyes, “Norman, it’s not- I didn’t mean- Norman, it, it was an accident–”</p><p>A foot to the jaw nearly made him bite his tongue off.</p><p>He tried to desperately crawl away, nails sinking into the wooden planks, but the projectionist’s large hand wrapped around his neck and shoved him with horrible violence to the ground, making him cry out in pain. He planted a knee in the director’s stomach, to get all the air out of him and strangle him more easily.</p><p> </p><p>“You son of a bitch.” Norman snarled. The musician fought against his iron grip by scratching at his fingers; the projectionist punched him again, at first to stun him, then more viciously, more angrily, not just to frighten, but to kill, and he made Sammy to spit bile and saliva and something dark and foul in smaller and larger spurts. “You son of a bitch, you killed him! You killed him!”</p><p> </p><p>“It was an accident!” Sammy sobbed between spits of nearly jello-like water and the increasing flow of his epistaxis - his legs were kicking and flailing and he could feel his lungs burning from the inside and he could feel death, slowly climbing up his arms and into his throat with its black tendrils, and his hand searched feverishly for something that could free him from the lethal grasp as he fought against the pain to remain lucid - “It was an accident, it wasn’t supposed to-! Norman, I can’t- Norman!-, stop, stop, I can’t-!”</p><p> </p><p>“You <em>killed</em> him!”</p><p> </p><p>“It wasn’t supposed to happen!”</p><p> </p><p>“You <em>KILLED</em> him!”</p><p> </p><p>A rotten plank that had been left on the floor to fix a hole in the wall collided with Norman’s head, loosening his fingers as well as his stability, causing him to lean off of Sammy; the musician gasped for air, and with a kick in the stomach he threw the older man off of himself. He scrambled to his feet as the projectionist tried to recollect himself and brandished the wooden plank in his trembling hands, as if it were some sort of sword, of protective weapon, something that could keep a distance between him and the other man.</p><p> </p><p>“It was an accident,” he repeated, shaking fiercely. His feet took small steps backward, terrified, as he noticed the projectionist was standing back up. “It was an accident, Norman, I swear, I didn’t mean to - it wasn’t supposed to happen! It wasn’t supposed to go this way, please, I just saw him and panicked and, and- please, for the love of God, you need to believe me, I didn’t mean for it to happen, this, it was an accident!”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, <em>this</em> ain’t gonna <em>be</em> an accident!” Norman roared, long arms lunging at Sammy’s throat too fast for the musician to defend himself properly. The plank hit Norman shoulder as he slammed the younger man against the wall; his short nails sunk into Sammy’s flesh drawing fresh blood, and above the pain it was the sight of that darkened red, nearly brown, typical of old coagulated blood, the viscous feeling it left in its wake as it trickled down his body, that stirred inside the musician such a horrendous terror that all ten of his fingers stabbed right through the skin and muscle of Norman’s arm.</p><p> </p><p>The projectionist’s eyes widened in a second, and his mouth opened in a deafening cry of agony; his iron grip broke, and as he nursed his maimed limb in his still sane palm Sammy slithered away, legs scrambling to outpace longer ones as strained to turn the corner as fast as he could to cross the half sunken corridor that lead to the entrance of the music department, as if merely reaching would have turned it into a safe haven capable of shielding him from any sort of threat.</p><p>Norman’s steps soon thundered behind him, the deep wound in his arm slowing only his initial sprint. In his eyes glowed broken trust and an incomprehensible grieving fury.</p><p>He was caught off guard by a sudden burst of ink. Its pressure broke the pipe it was flowing through and shot a stream of pitch black liquid straight on the side of his head with such force and such velocity that it sent him against the wall, one knee buckling under the surprise attack and making him plummet to the ground. The wooden floor beneath him began quickly disappearing under the rising ink; he could feel it burn against his wound while his blood trickled, darkened and was completely overtaken by the growing ebony mass. The seemingly endless charcoal waterfall right next to his ear made a horrendous noise that cancelled out everything else.</p><p>Norman struggled to stand up and failed. Under the gaze of his unsoaked eye, which he opened with a hiss of pain, he believed to see for the fraction of a second the ink climbing up his skin and clothes, wrapping around him in a way so similar to paint, yet so much more solid, more possessive, anchoring him to itself. What seemed like the fabric of a pair of trousers entered his vision, and he looked up.</p><p> </p><p>The axe did not cut his head clean off.</p><p> </p><p>He felt the blood pouring into his throat and choked. The swing drove his forehead directly in the dark basin beneath him, and he cried out first in agony and then in the horrified realization that whatever he was drenched in was consuming him whole.</p><p> </p><p>The blade fell into shoulder, and the projectionist sank in the growing puddle.</p><p> </p><p>Sammy panted heavily.</p><p> </p><p>Red blood dripped off the axe and disappeared in the ink.</p><p> </p><p>He turned the flow off and returned to his second mistake of the night. The ink allowed him to wade through itself, as if aware of the dark marrow alreadg flowing in his veins, in search of the second body he would have had to hide.</p><p> </p><p>He did not find it.</p><p> </p><p>He searched again, and again; he crawled on all fours like an infant back and forth two, three, four times, desperately searching for his second more or less accidental victim. His attempts were all in vain.</p><p>The older man had… Dissolved. Completely melted in inscrutable waters.</p><p>He stared into the glossy reflections. His pale, sickly, crazy-eyed face returned a dark deformed gaze from the waves.</p><p> </p><p>Nobody would have had to know.</p><p> </p><p>If there’s no witnesses, nobody can tell if something has happened. If there’s no witnesses, nothing has happened. No mistakes were committed. No accidents had occured. There is no blame to be taken. No secrecy breached. No threat looming.</p><p>And what is a body if not a quiet witness?</p><p> </p><p>Nobody would have had to know.</p><p> </p><p>The musician stood as if suddenly bit by a small vicious animal.</p><p> </p><p>Nobody would have had to know.</p><p> </p><p>He ran back to the accountant’s corpse, Granr’s eyes staring still into the ceiling. He grabbed him almost giddily and began dragging him away with newfound enthusiasm, not caring about how his shoes slipped on the floor every other step, or how every single muscle in his body would have ached terribly by the time the next morning would have come.</p><p> </p><p>Nobody would have had to know.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>In a place that could not possibly have been, in a time that didn’t feel like it could exist, Norman opened his eye.</p><p>It was liquid. Or at least almost. Not solid. Not gaseous. It felt cold. It slowly felt colder. Something in his body seemed to be amiss. His head felt heavy. When he moved it, it was as if it were that of a large mannequin.</p><p>Grant was beside him. He stood upside down. Or laid. Or neither. Norman could not tell. Grant did not look like himself. He did not know what he looked like. He could see it was Grant. He could not comprehend anything else. His eyes were closed.</p><p>Norman reached out to him. “Grant,” he called. The first letter garbled out of him with a static. The others did not. He strained to reach Grant’s hand.</p><p>Grant’s eyes opened. He reached for him. “Norman,” he called through a split in his head. His mouth did not open. His fingers brushed Norman’s.</p><p> </p><p>Blinding light.</p><p> </p><p>Dark water.</p><p> </p><p>Reeling.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Reeling.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Incessant noise.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Reeling.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Reeling.</p><p> </p><p>Movement.</p><p> </p><p>Stop.</p><p> </p><p>In a moment the Protectionist grabbed the Striker by the neck and ankles and pulled.</p><p>It stared at it.</p><p> </p><p>Waiting.</p><p> </p><p>The Striker did not move again in its cold arms, devoid of any kind of life.</p><p>The Projectionist laid it on a table gently, as if suddenly remembering something.</p><p> </p><p>It turned away from it.</p><p> </p><p>It forgot.</p>
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